Scars and Calluses
by MirrorMarch
Summary: Tala always wondered why her father never told her any stories of his adventures, and on one particular stormy night, she finally finds out why. Rated T for general angsty-ness. Nothing else.


**A/N: This is an older story of mine that I just decided to post here because why not? Enjoy the sappy.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own The Legend of Zelda. At all. Zilch.**

 **Scars and Calluses**

 **E** ver since she was able to understand, Tala Saria Jikan had been told stories about the courageous exploits of her father. She grew up on those tales, and, like any child influenced by fabulous stories of such tremendous magnitude and personal importance, she took them to heart and could commonly be found outside in the horse pasture, wooden play weapons in her hands, pretending that she was a great hero like her father, saving the world from imminent doom. She was so in awe of her father's adventures, that when she was three and was given her first horse, a small male pony, she wanted to name him Epona the Second, after the mare her father rode while on his quest to save Hyrule. Her father had been there when the pony was born, helping the animal's mother through the difficult process of birthing a foal. When Tala suggested the name for the pony, her father had smiled at her, but there had been a grave, serious look in his piercing, cobalt eyes, eyes that perfectly matched hers in color but with an intensity that she could never even dream to emulate, as he told her gently in his low, quiet voice that she couldn't name the animal Epona, because this foal was male, and Epona was a girl's name. Of course Tala had listened to her father's words, but it had been that strangely grave look that had persuaded her to name the pony Rauru instead. Her father had chuckled and shook his head, but said that Rauru was a fine name, and Tala had to content herself with that. That had been three years ago, and now she realized that Epona would have been a silly name for her horse, because the real Epona was a chestnut color, and Rauru was a palomino.

She was six now, and had decided, thanks to a sleepless night spent staring at the wooden roof above her bed, trying to entertain herself during the long, dull hours by thinking extensively on various topics, that her sixth birthday had undoubtedly been the best of all the birthdays she'd had so far. This was because of the marvelous present she had been given that year. A saddle for Rauru, who was three and thus old enough to ride. The rest of the day had been spent learning from her mother how to take care of the pony, and from her father, how to ride. It had been a wonderful day.

Well, except for the end of it.

She remembered it so clearly, though she had been half asleep at the time. She had been sitting in her mother's lap in their old, faded-brown armchair by the fireplace. Her mother had just finished telling Tala about how her father had won Epona in a wager with the old ranch hand, Ingo. How her mother had watched on tenterhooks as her future husband raced the former ranch hand for the horse, and how he had won, not only the animal, but the entire ranch back from Ingo. Then her mother had blushed and told Tala that that was the first time she realized that she truly loved Link. Tala had smiled and yawned, and then had asked the question that had been the source of the rocky ending to her near-perfect birthday.

"Mama," she had asked, "why do you always tell me these stories? Why not Papa? He's the one who did all this stuff."

There had been the sound of glass shattering, and Tala had bolted up in her mother's lap to look into the kitchen where her father was leaning over the sink, his head in his hands, shards of glass from a broken cup scattered across the counter and floor.

"Papa?" she had asked in concern, "are you okay?"

Her mother had picked up Tala and placed her on the floor so she could rise from the armchair, and told her, "Tal, honey, it's late. Why don't you head up to bed?"

Tala did as she had been told, but that didn't prevent her from hearing the muffled sobs downstairs as she lay alone in the dark.

She had never asked that question again.

Tala was six-and-a-half when the storm came. She had been working with Rauru all day, trying to persuade him to attempt one of the jumping fences in the pasture. The little pony had adamantly refused, shooting her a look that clearly said he thought she was crazy. She had just lined him up to try for perhaps the fiftieth time, when her father emerged from the house and told her to quickly put Rauru in the stable and come inside because there was a massive storm coming. Tala looked up at the dark sky above her with some surprise and more than a little apprehension. She had noticed the dark clouds moving in from the northwest earlier in the day, but had since become so focused on her task of making Rauru jump at least one fence, that she had quite forgotten about it. Now, she wondered how she had missed the veritable thunderhead that rolled across the sky. She brought her pony into the stable and removed his tack as fast as she could, wished him a goodnight, and practically ran for the shelter of the farmhouse as the rain began to drizzle down. She slammed the door behind her and latched it tightly, as if the storm was a sentient being intent upon getting inside and destroying everything.

Suffice to say, Tala was not fond of storms.

Nevertheless, she was able to forget about the weather outside during dinner as the three of them enjoyed a delicious lamb stew with the curtains drawn over the windows of their little dining room, and the booming of the thunder nearly drowned out by the sound of their laughter as her father told Tala and her mother a story about a rash, bragging soldier he met in Castle Town just two days ago. Tala's father would travel to the large settlement a day's journey away on occasion to buy food and other essentials, and to sell some of the produce that their farm supplied. But sometimes, he would go there for a special, more exciting reason: Training the soldiers. Regarded as the best swordsman Hyrule had ever seen—he was the Hero of Time after all—her father would make the long journey to Castle Town to check on the state of the kingdom's first line of defense. The captains and battle commanders had learned long ago that the hero liked to keep them on their toes, so they were careful to never grow lax in the training of new recruits and the rigid schedule of Hyrule's military. On this his most recent visit, Tala's father had encountered a brash soldier that had been transferred from Kakariko Village to the east. The man had never seen Link in person, and so had not believed that this "young country bumpkin," as he put it, was the Hero of Time, and had blatantly refused to follow any advice Tala's father had to give, who was fifteen years his junior.

The soldier had ended up on the ground with a bruised ego and an even more bruised backside.

The story had Tala and her mother howling with laughter while her father just blushed and scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. Tala wished again that her father would tell stories of his adventures. He was the best storyteller ever. He could put all the emotions of the moment into his voice and hand gestures, keeping his listeners hanging on his every word, even if it was just a ridiculous story like the one he told over dinner. Tala could only imagine how much more alive the tales of his quest would be if he were to tell them. Her mother did a good job, but she had only been there for a few pieces of the story, whereas her father had lived it. But he never told her any of it, and if she wanted him to, she would have to ask, and that was something she promised herself she would never, ever do again.

So, dinner passed, and afterward, Tala and her mother did the washing up, while her father went outside to check on the horses, who had grown nervous as the storm continued to rage. Tala felt a small thrill of fear as the door opened to admit her father into the house and she caught a glimpse of the rain that pummeled down horizontally as the violent wind blew it harshly against the house, and the sky lit up with a crack of lightening. Then, her father closed the door, and she was once again in the bubble of safety that, in her young mind, surrounded the little farmhouse.

And so, Tala's evening was spent in relative comfort.

Until bedtime.

She had taken a bath to clean up after her hard day of riding and changed into her warm nightdress. Now, she lay on the rug next to the fire, happily doodling on a sheet of scrap paper until her father looked up at the water clock on the mantle above the fireplace and placed the book he had been reading on the low table by his chair. He swooped down on Tala suddenly, (whose doodle was now starting to look remarkably like Volvagia, the fire dragon that her father had fought in the Death Mountain Crater) and swung the little girl up on his strong shoulders. Tala squealed in surprise, then began to laugh outright as her father got a hold of her legs and started tickling her mercilessly. Her mother looked up sharply.

"Link," she admonished firmly, "don't do that. She'll fall and hit her head, and it's a day's journey to fetch the nearest doctor."

"Don't fret, Mal," her father said with a laugh, "she won't fall. I'm great at catching things—oops!"

This last was exclaimed as he pretended to "drop" Tala, then stop her descent expertly before she was injured. Her mother's hand had flown to her mouth at this, and when she realized that her husband hadn't actually dropped their only child, she frowned and smacked his arm lightly.

"Don't _do_ that!" she scolded, "you almost gave me a heart attack!"

Her father laughed again, readjusted his daughter's position on his shoulders and said, "alright, Mal, whatever you say."

Then, he carried Tala up the creaky, wooden stairs and into her room, where he dumped her unceremoniously onto her bed.

She was still giggling as he tucked her in and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead.

"Sleep well, Tal." he whispered.

Then, he quietly left the room, taking the lighted candle and his own warm presence with him.

Exhausted after her long day, and lulled by the gentle drumming of the rain, Tala fell straight to sleep.

She wasn't sure how long she had slept before the bright, blue flash of lightening and the horrible boom of the thunder awoke her. She only knew that now she was fully awake, staring blindly, wide-eyed, in the dark. That had been a terribly loud boom. Perhaps it hadn't been thunder that time. Maybe it was some great, huge monster stomping around on their roof, trying to rip up the tiles and wood in order to reach in and grab her. And what was that terrible screeching, scratching noise coming from the window? Was that the monster's claws, seeking an easier route to the little girl in the small bed?

Suddenly the house felt as if it wasn't quite as safe as it had been that evening, and Tala threw off the blankets, grabbed the arm of the toy fairy her mother had made for her (she had named the fairy Navi), and rushed downstairs, taking care not to tread on the creaky steps, so as not to alert the monster outside of her presence. She reached the ground floor, shivering in the cold that permeated the dark house, her toy guardian fairy hugged close to her chest, and began to turn in the direction of her parents' room, then stopped as she noticed a dark form by one of the dining room windows. Her heart skipped a beat and she nearly screamed, but her rational mind caught up with her then, and she recognized the tall form and wildly tousled hair of her father, and her heart settled back to its normal rate. She took a few quiet steps toward him and opened her mouth to tell him about the impending threat outside her window, but the words never came out, for at that moment, Tala noticed something in the low light emitted by a small candle on the windowsill that both shocked and horrified her.

Facing away from her as he was, Tala could only see her father's bare back, and in that dim light a long, vicious, ropy scar was visible snaking its way across and down his spine, surrounded by smaller, sharp cuts. She gaped and unconsciously squeezed the toy fairy tighter to her body until she was able to force out a soft, tremulous, "Papa?"

Her father spun around in surprise, his face hard and fierce. She recoiled at the savage look, but then relaxed as her father's eyes softened and he knelt down to her level.

"What's the matter, Tal?" he whispered gently, and she was suddenly overcome by that warm, safe feeling that always seemed to surround her father, and she ran the remaining distance to him and threw her small arms around his neck, eyes shut tight as she tried to stop the sudden flow of tears that had started running down her face.

"It's alright, darling. Everything's fine, Tal. Hush. It's alright." he soothed as he wrapped her in his warm, calming embrace.

"It..It's not...f-fine," Tala hiccuped into his shoulder, "you k-know it's not."

Her father pulled away from her and gripped her upper arm gently with one hand, and cupped her face with the other, wiping away her tears with his thumb.

"What are you talking about, darling? What do I know?"

Tala looked down at his body, criss-crossed with pale, unnatural marks, and replied tremulously, "you got cut."

A sad, understanding look came over his face, and he pulled her into another hug, stroking her wild, red hair and whispered, "oh, darling, it's alright. Those are just scars."

"But why?" the girl sobbed, "why would someone do that to you? Why, Papa?"

He sighed, and was silent for while so that the only sound Tala could hear was the steady patter of the rain against the windowpane. He was silent for such a long time that at first Tala thought he wasn't going to answer the question. Then, he picked her up and carried her to the old, brown armchair, rekindled the fire that had long since gone cold in the long, dark hours of the night, and placed the girl on his lap as he sat down. Only then did he speak.

"Tala," he said slowly, "I need to tell you something. Something important."

She settled back against his chest and waited patiently for him to continue.

"Those stories that your mother tells you. The ones about me... the reason I never tell them myself is because they...they scare me."

Tala bolted straight up and twisted around to look at him disbelievingly.

"They scare you? But you're not afraid of anything, Papa! All that stuff you did. You can't have done all that if you were afraid."

He looked down at her seriously and told her, "being brave, having courage, doesn't mean that you aren't afraid, Tal. If I wasn't afraid, than my bravery would be meaningless. Being brave is acting in spite of your fear, doing what you know is right even though you're terrified. That's real courage, Tal. That's what I had to learn for myself on my adventures. And it's one of the hardest things I ever had to do."

She stared at him, understanding his words yet not understanding at the same time.

"But," she began hesitantly, "but, you did do all that stuff that Mama told me about, didn't you Papa?"

"Yes, Tala. But it didn't all happen the way Mama told it. There's more."

And so Tala got to hear the story she'd always wanted to hear from her father's lips. It was the same story she remembered and loved, but it also wasn't. It was darker. Filled with more pain than heroic feats, more tears than laughter, more blood than the waters of Lake Hylia, and more fear than undaunted courage.

When he finished, there was a long, long silence. Tala sat on her father's lap, pondering quietly as she stared in an absent manner at long, shallow cut on his neck. After a moment, she looked up at his face and addressed him.

"Papa?" Tala whispered, and her father shook his head in a way that told the girl he was trying to clear it of unwanted thoughts.

"Yes, Tal?" he replied, stroking the girl's head like one might pet a dog.

Tala paused for a moment, then, with all the simple wisdom of a child said, "Papa, you're the bravest person that I know. Not just 'cause you did all that stuff, but 'cause you told me that story even though it scares you. And..." she searched for a suitable conclusion for a second, then found it and finished with a smile, "and I love you."

She hugged him again and he hugged her back as he murmured, "I love you too, Tal."

And this time he held her for a very, very long time before he spoke again.

"Tal," he said, a lighter note in his voice now, "why did you come downstairs in the first place?"

She jerked backward away from him as she was suddenly reminded of the horrible creature outside.

"Oh, Papa! There's a great, big monster on our roof that's after me! I just know it!"

Her father nodded sagely, as if he had known this all along, and asked her, "so what are you going to do about it?"

Her thin eyebrows furrowed and she said with fierce determination, "I'm gonna be brave like you, Papa. I'm still scared, but I'm gonna go back up there and face it."

Her father smiled and stood up, taking a hold of her small hand in his callused one, calluses formed by years of work on the farm and, Tala now knew, from wielding a sword and shield for the good of the kingdom.

"That's my girl." he said, "now you go on up there and get that monster, but if you need help, just remember that a hero should never fight alone. So, if you need me, I'll be right here. I'll always be right here."


End file.
